Behind the Scenes Page 4

  Well… certainty would have taken too long.

  I had to settle for maybe not telling him to kiss my ass.

  “I’ll meet you at the studio tomorrow,” I told him, gathering my bag, glad that this had all happened so quickly our server had never made it back to take our order. “Every showrunner at WAWG gets at least a temporary office space, so I’ll consult with Nubia about yours. Enjoy your lunch,” I told him, standing to walk away from the table, and ignoring the sound of my name coming off his lips as I blinked back sudden, frustrated tears.

  My feelings weren’t hurt.

  Not at all.

  More than anything, I was baffled that the same lowkey dude who’d given me a ride home – and on his dick – had swung so drastically into… whatever the fuck that was.

  It was inconsequential though.

  The facts were that I’d signed a contract and had every intention of fulfilling it. If he wanted to be an asshole – for no good reason – he wouldn’t be the first or the last, and he wouldn’t be a failure on my resume.

  When it came to this career I was carving out?

  I’d never lost.

  And I wasn’t about to start with Pierre Perry the Third.

  ***

  Knocking at my door woke me up.

  I wasn’t really supposed to be asleep anyway, but the events of the night before, a day spent researching and a second glass of red wine had all worked in concert to have me knocked out by eight pm.

  I sat up from where I’d passed out on the couch, retrieving my laptop from where it had slipped to the floor. The screen was filled with the tabs I’d been using to look certain things up, and my favorite notepad was open to a vast to-do list I’d been drawing up for One Day Sober. I marked my page and closed it, then closed my laptop to answer the door, since now whoever was there was ringing the bell, making it echo through the whole apartment.

  I’m coming, I’m coming, I muttered to myself, but didn’t yell out loud, in case I didn’t actually care to see whoever was on the other side.

  When I looked through the peephole, I quickly determined that really was the case, but… I still opened the door.

  “What can I do for you, Les?” I asked, unmoved by the sight of my ex-boyfriend at my door, still obviously dressed for work. I couldn’t front on Les – the man made a suit look good, and this beautifully tailored olive-green thing he had happening was no exception.

  Attractiveness couldn’t overcome the fact that as a partner… he left much to be desired.

  “You can talk to me, for starters,” he said, slipping past me uninvited, into my space. “I called you last night when I realized you were gone. Several times.”

  “Several is a pretty severe understatement.” I pushed the door closed, but didn’t lock it, because as far as I was concerned, he’d be leaving soon. “Not to mention those bullshit texts.”

  Les sighed, his pretty hazel eyes offering something masquerading as remorse. Or hell… maybe it was genuine, but it damn sure wasn’t about what it should be about.

  I didn’t believe he was actually capable of that.

  “I can own up to getting upset, and texting some things that were regrettable,” he said, walking up to take my hand. “But you didn’t have to leave like that. In the middle of the night, then not answering your phone? That was fucked up Logan, and your ass knows it.”

  Pulling my hand away, I tucked them against my body, arms crossed. “I was just giving you back the same energy you’d given me. You don’t give a shit about hurting or upsetting me – why should I give a shit about you?”

  Les sighed, running a hand over his smooth-shaved chin. “Is this about Nikki?”

  My eyebrows shot up, because… no, it wasn’t. But… “Should it be about Nikki?” I asked, referring to one of his coworkers or “peer” or whatever the fuck they called it at his family’s company. I wasn’t particularly pressed about her, but had always gotten the impression she had an issue with me.

  Maybe I was right.

  “What?” Les blinked. “I don’t… no,” he insisted, shaking his head. “It shouldn’t be about anything, because I don’t see a problem. Just you inventing reasons to be upset, like always.”

  I smiled. “Oh. Of course. That’s definitely it,” I agreed, dropping my arms to head over to the door. “Let me exacerbate it – goodbye.” I opened my front door, motioning for him to step out, but… obviously that would be too easy.

  Instead of exiting, he moved deeper into the apartment, his eyes landing on where I’d been working from my couch. Specifically, on my empty glass. “Is this why you missed lunch with my mother and I today? To play on your laptop and drink wine?”

  Annoyed, I pushed the door closed again. “I missed lunch because I wasn’t fucking speaking to you, Les. I’m not sure you’ve quite gotten that message. And besides that, I told you I had a meeting with a new client come up, and asked you to reschedule, but accommodating me… that would just be too much for you, right?”

  “I’m sorry that my mother, the woman that gave me life, holds a higher priority to me than your little… assistant thing.”

  I laughed. “Little assistant thing. Wow.”

  “You have a fucking law degree, Logan. Your whole family does. Your cousin is Desiree Byers. Don’t act like I’m wrong for not understanding what the hell you’re doing, when your own father doesn’t either. This “business” you’re insisting on sacrificing your future for is… beneath you. You have to know that, right?” he asked, with such conviction that I knew this wasn’t just cruelty, even though it felt like it.

  He really believed that shit.

  “We discussed the engagement today,” he spoke again, while I was still considering exactly how to curse him out. “She’s not happy about it, especially after you stood us up today, but… she’s going to give me the heirloom ring.”

  Once upon a time… those words would’ve taken my breath away. To say that very sentence would’ve made me happy was a gross understatement.

  I would’ve been over the fucking moon.

  The heirloom ring in question was the seven-carat solitaire that his father proposed to his mother with – the same one his grandfather, and great-grandfather, had given their brides. Before my disillusionment, I’d actually fantasized about wearing it, finding the whole thing so wonderfully romantic.

  Hell, even now, I felt a little pang, thinking about the fact that gorgeous ring would never be mine.

  I was not prepared to tolerate being married to the man it came with.

  “Les… I’m sure some woman is going to proudly accept that ring from you, but… it won’t be me.”

  With those words, all his bravado – the infuriating arrogance he’d walked in here with – crumbled. His brow dipped in a confused frown.

  “Logan… come on. What are you talking about, babe?”

  I smirked. “Oh. I’m babe again now?”

  “You’ve always been that,” he insisted, approaching me again. He didn’t bother with my hands this time – he wrapped his arms around my stiff body. “Seriously… I don’t know what’s going on with us, but whatever I’ve done to upset you… I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t get it.” I slipped away from him, shaking my head as I strode to my kitchen for the wine bottle I’d been drinking from.

  “You’re damn right I don’t get it,” he spoke up, following me. “Just… explain it to me, Logan. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Everything,” I told him, snatching the already-removed cork from the bottle without the aid of an opener. I took a swig, then shook my head. “You talk down to me about my career, you take my presence for granted, you don’t listen, you’re condescending… do I really need to go on?”

  Shaking his head, Les propped his hands on his hips, staring at me with that same confused expression, as if nothing I was saying made sense.

  “None of this is making any sense to me,” he confirmed, and… I just took another drink to keep from either laughi
ng in his face or throwing the damn bottle at his head. “I thought we were good?”

  I let out a dry laugh. “We were good, Les. Until we weren’t. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t want to get over it anymore. I don’t want to try anymore. I’m just… done.”

  He pushed out a deep sigh, just standing there looking stupid for a long moment until he nodded. “I hear you. I hear you, okay babe?”

  “The fact that you just called me babe…”

  “I think maybe we just need a little space,” he said, like I hadn’t said a word. He approached me, trying for a kiss that I easily dodged. A few times, actually, before he gave up. “I’m gonna call you in a few days, once you’ve had a chance to cool off. Then we can talk.”

  I chuckled. “Yeah, you do that,” I encouraged, knowing his number was, and would be for the foreseeable future, blocked.

  He took it as a positive sign though, shooting me a grin before he headed off.

  Idiot.

  We hadn’t even really argued, but I still felt hot and flustered as if we’d had some knock-down drag out thing.

  As such, I finished off that bottle of wine, took a long ass bath, then settled into bed… still pissed.

  It wouldn’t have been so bad, if I’d at least had a successful lunch meeting to think back on – instead I could only muse about how utterly wrong I’d been about Pierre.

  There I was, thinking I’d hit the one-night-stand-with-a-stranger jackpot – good sex with a decent guy I could fantasize about, since my real life was so… not the same.

  But no.

  No such luck.

  And the worst part of it all, was that I could ignore Les.

  Pierre though?

  I still had to work with his ass anyway.

  4

  Pierre

  Wow! Eight in the morning, the day after she’s hired, in your studio office? She really means business, huh? – Nubz

  A humorless smile graced my lips as I thought back to Nubia’s response to this too-early, too-soon ass meeting. She’d been too busy at the book signing to ask about it, but that hadn’t kept her out of my text messages, seeking a follow up. Apparently, Logan had reached out to her directly for some studio information, so she knew there were pieces being moved into place.

  Despite my efforts to the contrary.

  I had to assume Logan hadn’t shared anything about the way our meeting ended – there was no way Nubia wouldn’t be on my ass about it if she had.

  But since Nubia was still on the good, excited energy, Logan must’ve opted for the kind of goal-focused tunnel-vision that often agitated me in other people.

  Something I knew said more about me than it did about them.

  Productivity worked for some people.

  Avoidance was more my speed.

  But, because it was clear that wouldn’t get me where I was trying to go, I showed up to the damn meeting, a little before the time Logan had indicated on my calendar – something I wasn’t even sure how she had access to, but she did.

  In fact, I was very early, almost thirty minutes, and was burning time in the WAWG executive parking lot trying to remember what Logan’s car looked like.

  I knew it was a BMW, but that was the only real detail I could remember – it was light color too, but exactly which, I couldn’t call to mind. Maybe because it was dark, and late, and I was a bit distracted by her ass and thighs and face.

  The lot at this place was full of fucking BMWs.

  None of them appeared to have the same front-end damage Logan had done to hers, but from the tiny bit I knew about her, I wasn’t sure that mattered.

  She was a Byers – of the you don’t want to see their law firm on the letterhead unless you hired them Byerses. I wasn’t sure exactly how yet, but I was certain she was related to Desiree Byers, who’d notably blended the fine art of public relations, image consulting, and cutthroat lawyer into a unique position for herself in the fabric of this city.

  If Logan was anything like that, her car was probably fixed before most people’s alarm went off for the day.

  Instead of dwelling too long on where Logan’s car may or may not be, I pulled myself out of my own vehicle, which I had yet to bother with getting fixed. It was an eyesore, sure, but once I was in it, I wasn’t thinking about that shit, and had better uses of my time than worrying with a cosmetic flaw.

  Things like… working on my script.

  Now that things were starting to move, thanks to Nubia’s insistence, I had to have an actual product. While I would’ve rather vegged in front of one of my gaming consoles and big-ass TV, I found the focus and inspiration instead to write three more episodes before I passed out on my couch, only waking up when I did because I needed to be ready for this meeting.

  With my laptop tucked under my arm, I headed into the executive building at WAWG for the first time. I had to go through a whole security screening, which I wasn’t expecting, have an access badge printed, and then finally I was given directions to my office – which was apparently on the fourth floor.

  The studio execs were up on six, the moneymaker shows on five.

  At least, that was how “Freddy” at the security desk had explained it before jotting down my office number, with two lines under fourth floor.

  I couldn’t say exactly why, but that shit had me feeling salty as I headed off to the elevator, and then even more annoyed when I had to press that damn four.

  My phone chimed as I was exiting the elevator, and it was no surprise to see the name that flashed on the screen, accompanied by a text containing just two words.

  Good shit. – Nick Davison

  That message could easily be confused as not saying much, but truly… it was saying a whole lot.

  Nick was the only person outside my family who’d seen a single line of script for One Day Sober, and he was the only person at this point whose feedback I implicitly trusted. As an indie filmmaker, he’d already accomplished much of what I was just now trying to chase, and was on his way to the kind of lofty acclaim I could only hope for at this point.

  If this was his show, his office would be on the fifth floor.

  Which was why “good shit” was a compliment of the highest order, on the two scripts I’d sent him just this morning. The first one, he’d completely dismantled, right in front of me. I was back in LA – back home – watching a game with this dude, when I told him about the script’s existence. He told me to send it to him, so I did, thinking he would check it out later.

  Nah.

  He got up and printed it right in his home office, then took a red pen to it.

  Asked questions.

  Challenged my premise, the conflicts, every piece of what would become the pilot episode, and then told me not to say shit else to him until I fixed it.

  So… I fuckin’ fixed it.

  And I learned from what he said and adjusted.

  From there, honestly, I’d gotten a little stuck, not sure how to bring in what felt like a missing layer to the plot… until Logan’s comment at that disastrous lunch.

  There’s always a love story.

  And… shit, I guess she was right, because with that in mind, I’d knocked out two more episodes.

  Two more “good shit” episodes.

  I’d known Nick a long time – our fathers were good friends – long enough to trust that he would be real with me, especially about something like this. If it was fucked up… he would say so.

  With the good energy of that brief commentary on my mind, I strolled down the busy hall to find my assigned office, which was tucked at the end. I had my eyes peeled for the numbers on the side, knowing that would be my only way of identifying which one was mine, with it being my first day here.

  In front of my door though… I wasn’t sure I knew much at all.

  Pierre Perry III – One Day Sober

  The words were embossed on a plaque, just underneath the office number. Looking around, I saw that the other office doors bore sim
ilar signage, but I definitely hadn’t been expecting this. The offices were all glass across the front, with some sort of privacy feature that not everyone employed – I could see straight into some offices, not so much with the others.

  Mine was one I couldn’t see into… which may have been a good thing, because if I’d known Logan was already on the other side before I opened the door… I probably would’ve turned around and kept walking.

  She was throwing me, still.

  “Good morning,” she chirped from her position at my desk, where she was busy setting up what appeared to be a brand-new computer. “I’d hoped to have this all set up before you arrived.”

  I just stood there, looking at her, more concerned with how damn good she looked than what she was talking about – I think she took it as an impetus to keep talking.

  “I thought you might appreciate getting straight to work, so I’ve taken the liberty of compiling some pre-production checklists for you, that should take you through every step of the process for taking your show from page to screen,” she explained, abandoning the computer setup to point out several packets on the desk. “I’ve also put together some lists of Black videographers, writers, and actors that might be suitable – they’re categorized by their styles, with other projects they’ve worked on annotated for quick reference.” She stopped, and straightened, tucking hair behind her ear before folding her hands in front of her body – a move that emphasized her perfect posture.

  “All of this is also available via cloud documents for easy access, and I’ll get your computer set up with software for managing the staff, cast, and budget for this project. You’ll also find a money order that should more than cover the damage to your vehicle from our incident the other night – I consulted with the person who did the body work on my car, and he assures me the amount is correct,” she finished with a smile, then finally stopped speaking to wait on me to say… anything.

  Shaking my head, I finally stepped fully into the office, closing the door behind me. “Logan… I don’t give a shit about a check.”